It was becoming more difficult every year. There were fewer large trees, more environmentalists, and Babe had been put to pasture, caring more for chewing daisies than for towing logs. Paul couldn’t blame him.

He rubbed his back, dabbing at his sweat streaked brow. These days, he removed barnacled stumps from house lots.

Paul’s bunions were killing him.

“Hey, you stupid oaf. No loafing. You have this acre to clear,” yelled the foreman, chewing his ever present licorice.

No one cares about my exploits anymore.

Retired, sipping drinks in Fiji, Paul looked out at the forest of men and smiled.